


What Comes Next?

by avidbeader



Category: Ted Lasso (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Rated T for Roy's swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, otherwise this is just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 09:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30137505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avidbeader/pseuds/avidbeader
Summary: Roy Kent had a lot to consider in the face of an injury that likely ended his career.Then in the space of a few conversations, he had even more to consider.
Relationships: Keeley Jones/Roy Kent
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	What Comes Next?

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for a new fandom! Just me having some thoughts about various directions for Roy.
> 
> This has not been beta-read yet to get rid of the worst of my Americanisms, but will be edited when the time comes.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I want to be there for you.”

“I know, but I want to hear it alone first.”

“But—”

“Keeley, please. I need to hear it alone first.”

Keeley gave him a rather sad sideways smile, reaching over to tweak his ear. “I’m not gonna think any less of you if you cry, you know.”

Roy took her hand and kissed it as a delay tactic, moved by her words and unsure how to respond. He deflected.

“I’ve faced things alone since I was nine. Too big a change right now, on top of everything else.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a good thing to run through all the changes at once?”

He was prevented from replying by the door opening. The doctor, a middle-aged man reading his tablet over the glasses perched on his nose, entered and shut the door behind him before Keeley had a chance to even stand up. She glanced at Roy, wide-eyed, and he resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Mr. Kent, it’s an honor. I’ve followed your career for many years, ever since you moved up to Chelsea. That was an incredible play against Tartt last night, very inspiring. Wish the team could’ve pulled it out. Reckon Old Rebecca’s learned her lesson about hiring stupid Americans?”

The familiar anger flared. “Oi, Coach Lasso’s not stupid. He’s still getting a handle on things, but he’s not stupid.”

“And that’s Ms. Welton to you, you prick!” Keeley snarled.

The doctor paused and stared for a moment. “My apologies. To both of you.” He resettled his glasses and focused on his tablet once more. “Let’s talk about the knee.”

Roy drew up a little, preparing to hear the worst.

“If you’re careful about it and don’t rush, you’ll probably be ready to go in September.”

Roy’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Keeley stirred beside him, cautiously hopeful.

“I mean, we could do surgery, repair the tear faster, but it’s a very minor one. If you can be patient and let it heal on its own, follow rehab protocol, you could be 100% again, just not in time to start the season.” The doctor paused and laid his tablet on the counter next to him. “The question then becomes, is your 100% enough?”

Roy ran a hand over his beard. That question had plagued him for two years now, since the ankle sprain that had sidelined him for weeks.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, you’ve got some time on your hands now. Maybe think it over. In the meantime, it will be the RICE drill for the next fortnight, wearing the brace when you aren’t RICE-ing or bathing until further notice, and I want you using a support every step you have to take. Crutch if you want sympathy, a walking cane if you want some flair, but something.”

Keeley’s face lit up. “How about one with a snake head, like Lucuis Malfoy?”

Roy cracked a smile at that but shook his head. “Not that one, no Harry Potter stuff.”

“Oh, right.” She thought for a second. “Charlie Chaplain?”

The doctor joined in. “Have to shave the beard, though. And get the hat.”

“Wasn’t like I was gonna fucking wear a blond wig, either,” Roy growled, fighting the unexpected urge to laugh.

“You sure?” Keeley tilted her head. “I’ve got one you could borrow.”

He couldn’t hold it in. The unfamiliar rush of optimism bubbled up and out in a burst of chuckles and he pulled Keeley close to him as they laughed together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They started with a padded crutch to help Roy manage with the brace that kept him from bending his knee at all, and Keeley directed the taxi to the nearest ice cream shop.

“Can’t do this much, I won’t be able to keep it off until I can do proper workouts again,” Roy warned her as Keeley paid for their choices and settled him at a little table outside.

“Your observation is duly noted, but we deserve a celebration. You really weren’t expecting to hear you could play again.”

“The injury isn’t career-ending?”

They looked up to see Trent Crimm, the _Independent_ reporter, standing not far from their table, his own ice cream starting to melt in its cup.

Keeley glanced at Roy, letting him direct the conversation.

Roy scooped up a mouthful of chocolate-sauced vanilla and savored it before answering. “Doctor says I can be back on the pitch in the autumn if I’m careful. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let Coach Lasso deliver that news before you print it. We only just found out.”

Crimm nodded, considering. “May I tell him I know because of this conversation? I owe him a meal as it is. I could invite him to lunch and get the exclusive that way.”

Keeley let her mouth curve down, impressed. “Wish there were more journalists like you.”

Crimm gave a rueful smile. “Let’s just say that I’ve had a good example presented to me recently.” He focused on Roy once more. “Are you going to return, then?”

“I’m not sure. But football’s all I’ve done since I was nine.”

“That’s right, you’re an academy kid. That does limit things if you succeed. I’d wager you have plenty of stories to tell about that…” Crimm looked at him intently. “Ever thought about writing your autobiography?”

Roy snorted at that. “Are you fucking serious? Who’d want to read about me?”

Crimm waved a hand around the plaza. “Any number of Richmond fans, I would think. Not to mention Sunderland fans and Chelsea fans and footie fans in general. Your name would be a draw initially, and if the writing is compelling, the reviews would help generate sales.”

Keeley lit up, her eyes dancing with possibilities. “I could help with publicity! Get you trending, set up a book tour! It’d be fun!”

“But I’ve never written anything since I left school. I’m probably a shit writer.”

Crimm nodded around a mouthful of ice cream. He swallowed and rubbed at his chin to catch a drip. “That, Mr. Kent, is why I’m making the offer to be your ghost writer. If you decide this is something you want to pursue.”

Roy stared at him a moment, trying to ignore Keeley’s growing excitement as she practically bounced in her chair like his six-year-old niece. “You’re fucking serious.”

“I am. I have a good instinct for a story and I think your autobiography would sell. And we could find out whether you’re a good writer or shit writer in the process.” He lowered his voice. “Two other autobiographies I worked on became bestsellers.”

“Cor! Which ones?” Keeley leaned forward, her chin in one hand, eager to know.

“Now, now, my contracts demand that I remain a hundred percent hidden.”

Keeley pouted and Crimm set his ice cream on their table and pulled out his phone. “Would you be willing to trade numbers? Talk about this in a week or two, after the madness dies down?”

After another moment, in which Roy studied the reporter and got no sense of ridicule or deceit, he took the phone and put his number in the contacts. “Why not?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roy was stretched out on his sister’s chaise lounge, RICE-ing: knee up, wrapped tight in a compression bandage, with an ice pack draped over all. He would probably be resting better if Phoebe weren’t so insistent on taking care of him. She kept bringing him cushions for his back, books to read, the remote for the telly, a packet of crisps, a picture of him that she’d drawn. For the moment, she was distracted as her mum supervised the making of tea, and Roy tried to focus on the news.

His phone rang and he frowned, seeing Higgins’ office number on the screen. He drew a deep breath, wondering what Lasso had told him and if this was the start of negotiating him off to another team.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Kent, it’s Rebecca Welton.”

Roy jerked upright, hissing as the movement tweaked his knee. “Oh, hullo, sorry. Wasn’t expecting to hear from you directly, ma’am.”

“Well, I learned my lesson with Mr. Shelley’s promotion. No games or surprises. I want to let you know that I have spoken with Coach Lasso and we think there’s a need for a fitness coach on staff. I’d like to offer you the job on a trial basis for the off season. If your injury prevents you from returning to the pitch in the autumn, we can consider making the position permanent.”

Roy’s first instinct was to flare up, because of course Lasso had come up with the idea and of course he’d convinced her to do it. Him and his never-ending quest to take care of every last person…

“Mr. Kent? Are you there?”

He realised he’d been silent too long. “Sorry...sorry. I wasn’t expecting something like that. Was it the gaffer’s idea?”

“He did talk to me about the composition of the coaching staff, and the fact that it had been cut down while Ru—Mr. Mannion was in charge. But this was my idea. I think it’s time to change the culture around Richmond and this is one way to do it.” 

“I see.”

“So, Roy.” Her voice softened as she addressed him. “You have a place here for as long as you need it. If you want it.”

“Can I think it over?”

“Of course. My door will be open whenever you’re ready.”

She ended the call and Roy lowered his phone, staring out the window. He stayed lost in thought until Phoebe entered, carefully carrying a tea tray piled with pot, cups, and far too many Swiss rolls.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roy stumped into the training centre, grumbling. He realized he’d left his spare phone charger in the changing room, and with his limited mobility it would help to have the one next to his bed and the other in the sitting room. Keeley had planned to drive him over, but she got a last-minute plea to fill in on a photoshoot by the photographer who had given her her first few jobs. The taxi driver, after a few minutes of awe at having Roy Fucking Kent as a fare, had spent the trip telling him exactly what he should have done in order to both prevent Jamie Tartt from scoring and keep himself from getting hurt.

Roy paid and sent the man on his way instead of having him wait. He’d rather summon an Uber or wait for Keeley to be free than ride back with that prick.

It was quiet inside. The team had been given a fortnight’s holiday, with the understanding that there would be no moves of any kind to shift players for a month. A few maintenance crews were working on projects and Will was in the kit room, cleaning the empty shoe racks. When Roy turned into the changing room, he paused, seeing Nate and Coach Beard with their heads together at the tactics board, dissecting a play. Beard noticed him first and nodded. Nate looked up, beamed, and immediately turned worried. “Roy, should you be walking? You need to take care of that knee!”

  
“I know, I know. I’m on my arse all day long. Just needed to come get something.”

But Nate was in full mother-hen mode, insisting he sit down. “What do you need? I can get it for you.”

“Spare phone charger. I’ll get more use from it at home.”

“Of course, of course.” Nate started for Roy’s locker but Beard beat him to it, fishing out the charger and handing it to Nate.

Beard nodded again and pointed at Nate. “Water? Coke?”

Nate gave him a distracted wave. “Water, thanks.”

Beard left and Nate sat down. Roy braced himself, imagining Nate channeling Lasso and telling him to look on the bright side—

“Do you know what you’re gonna do now?”

Roy froze at that. Everyone else had been optimistic so far on his return. But Nate, who saw things clearly and had learned to voice them, was assuming that Roy wouldn’t play again.

“Dunno. The boss said something about fitness coaching. Might talk to her about it.”

“That’s a good idea. She should be back Monday. That friend of hers from Liverpool came down with her daughter. You know, the one she did the karaoke song for. They’re having a girls’ weekend.” Nate paused, scrubbing his hands on his trousers. “Is that...is that what you want to do?”

“I don’t fucking know yet, Nate. Why are you asking?”

“Well, my cousin, she works for Sky Sports. Doing makeup for the presenters, she hears things. Word is that Jack Ainsley is finally retiring.”

Roy lifted an eyebrow at that. “And you think I’d be a good commentator? Me, Roy Fucking Kent who can’t say five words without swearing? You’re taking the piss.”

“No, I’m not! I mean, yeah, you’d have to work on the not swearing, but you’d be perfect. You know the game, you’ve actually played it this century. And, in fact, you’ve actually played against most of the players out there now, so you’ll have interesting things to talk about. You’ve got the academy experience to back up what you say about the young players who just leveled up. Thanks to the publicity with Coach Lasso being hired, you’re a known name again. You’re good-looking _and_ you’re dating Keeley Jones. I think you’d be great at it.”

Roy stared at him a moment and Nate met his eyes. “You’re fucking serious.”

“I am. Think about it. If you decide you want to try, let me know and I’ll have Leandra get a name for you.”

Beard leaned around the door jamb. “Career advice delivered?”

Nate slapped his palms on his knees and stood. “Career advice delivered.”

Beard smiled and entered, three bottles of water in his hands. “If you want to stay another hour, we can give you a ride home.”

Roy’s phone dinged with an incoming text. He glanced at the notification, smiling reflexively. “Nah, that’s Keeley. She’s free now. She’ll drive me back. But thanks.” He let the others help him to his feet and get settled with the crutch, then took the water that Beard handed him.

“No problem. Get home and put that leg up again. Coach Lasso’ll touch base with you later this week.”

Roy went out into the sunshine, leaning against the brick wall as he waited for Keeley. His head was swimming. Not three days ago, he had been sitting in a doctor’s office, waiting to hear that his career and maybe his life were over. Instead, he had too many possibilities in front of him.

And he had no clue how to decide between them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two nights later, Roy was stretched out on Keeley’s sofa, his knee up over the side in its compression bandage and iced. His head was in Keeley’s lap and they were on their phones, looking at canes.

“Look at this one! A wolf’s head! It’s a direwolf!” Keeley held her phone in front of his.

“Nah, that’s Wolverhampton’s mascot.”

She flicked the screen to another image. “Dragon? This one’s wicked, holding the globe-looking crystal in its mouth.”

“Northampton.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be that way, just search a greyhound and be done with it!”

“I don’t want any fucking animal! I want something that’ll fit my bloody hand,” he growled.

“Don’t think they make ‘em in the shape of my tit,” she retorted.

That set them both laughing and Roy made a grab for the aforementioned breast. She slapped his hand away playfully, but leaned down to kiss him. It was turning from affectionate to steamy, his hands buried in her hair, when her doorbell rang.

“Fuuuck…”

Keeley giggled and patted his head before squirming out from under him and shoving one of her giant cushions under his shoulders. He relaxed until he heard her open the door.

“Jamie?”

“Is Roy here?”

“No, Roy is not fucking here!” He shouted over the back of the sofa. He flung himself back into the cloud of fuzzy pink and closed his eyes, listening for the sound of a door closing. Instead he heard low voices, then too many footsteps coming back into the sitting room. He grabbed the second cushion and pulled it over his face. “Go away.”

“Roy, I think you should hear him out.”

He let one frustrated scream into the pillow, then flung it from his face. “Fine, say whatever the fuck you have to say and leave!”

Jamie stood there, looking down at his feet. Roy frowned, seeing him dressed in a basic black tee and jeans. He looked...subdued, possibly the most serious Roy could ever remember, except for the night the team had bonded to get rid of the training room hauntings. He pushed himself up, wincing as he jostled his injured knee.

Jamie was looking everywhere but at him, his mouth open but no sound emerging.

Keeley tilted her head and flapped a hand at him. “Go on, then.”

Finally, he drew a deep breath and met Roy’s eyes. “I wanted to… I wanted to say I’m sorry. That you got hurt, not for anything I did. Because I didn’t do anything wrong—”

“I get that part,” Roy interrupted. “Why the bloody hell would you come over to say you’re fucking sorry for the situation?”

Jamie looked in Keeley’s direction, scrubbing at his chin. Then a grin broke through, like the sun peeking through clouds. “Because me fucking bastard of a dad would hate it if he knew I’d done it.”

Keeley gasped, then broke into giggles. That set Jamie off and he laughed as well, but Roy saw him swipe at one eye. He let out a chuckle of his own, then held out one hand. “Cheers, then.”

Jamie reached down to shake it, as Keeley beamed in approval.

“So, what ya gonna do now?”

“Dunno. Got a lot of choices to think about all of a sudden. What about you?”

“Dunno. I’d like to get out of Manchester again, maybe. Away from him.”

“Good luck with it.”

At that, Jamie seemed to think they were done and headed for the door.

“Oi, Tartt!”

Jamie paused and looked back. “Yeah, Kent?”

“Talk to Lasso. He might not be your coach anymore, but he’s not the sort to let anyone go.”

“Not even me?” Jamie tried to scoff, but Roy could see that thin thread of hope in his face.

“Not even you.”

Jamie nodded, considering.

Once he was gone, Roy realized what had happened and let out an annoyed “FUCK!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
